Lose it All: the 121st Hunger Games
by InfiniteFinity
Summary: SYOT: CLOSED "We never quite thought we could lose it all" - Imagine Dragons. An AU as if the Hunger Games had continued after the rebellion failed. The Hunger Games still ends the lives of 23 children every year, 23 children who are sure that whatever else happens, they'll never lose it all.
1. Chapter 1

**Information for the SYOT will be below this little snippet of required chapter to make sure this is a legal thing on ffn.**

It was unbearably quiet and suffocating in the small room she sat in. She glanced around, to make sure that no one else was in the room. She wanted to be alone. She had been constantly bombarded by people refusing to allow her some alone time for such a long time. All of her siblings always liked to come in and tease her since she was the youngest. They were all so much better than her, and they got the nicest rooms, and she was stuck in her hot, tiny room. It wasn't a room meant to be lived in, and until they got an air conditioning unit for her window, she would be hot and miserable constantly.

She heard her mother calling for her to come down but she ignored it and hurried to the door, locking it. She just wanted alone time. She _just wanted alone time._ Was that too much too ask? Maybe it was. Sometimes all of her siblings got so much attention that she got too much alone time, and sometimes they wouldn't stop with the teasing. She didn't want to deal with anyone either way today.

Someone knocked at the door. "Aelia, it's time for dinner," one of her brothers said. She ignored him and ran to her bed, throwing herself into it and pulling the blankets over her head, which didn't help the heat. "Aelia, come on, Mother and Father are going to get frustrated!"

She shut him out entirely, and shut her eyes tightly.

 **Idk what that was interpret it as you will but that was the president during this time, Aelia Crowl, when she was like eleven-thirteen, somewhere in there. So yes. Here we go on a nice information dump.**

 **This isn't the first time I've done one of these but it's the first time I have on this account. So basically, don't worry, I know what I'm doing.**

 **I have a few dealies/rules/announcements for this thing:**

 **1\. First of all, no Mary Sues but that's a given.**

 **2\. I won't accept any tributes submitted over reviews. That's, like, illegal on ffn policies anyway. So don't do it or this could get deleted, and do you know how fucking annoying and upsetting it is to have your work deleted for whatever reason? Really fucking annoying and upsetting and I was furious when it happened the first time it ever happened to me, a long time ago.**

 **3\. You can send in up to 4 tributes but please make the fourth a bloodbath. You may have more if I get desperate and you really want the spot and I say you can submit another.**

 **4\. There will be a sponsor system that I will describe below.**

 **5\. Also, the more you review and stuff the longer your tribute might last? Yes I know I'm a shit person for bribing you this way but let's overlook that.**

 **6\. You may reserve spots so if you want to do that, please do. It'll make me happy to see that people are interested.**

 **7\. If you're looking for more Hunger Games awesomeness... CHECK OUT MY NEW 24-24 COLLAB! It's called Troubled Souls and this is the link for the forum:**

forum/Troubled-Souls-24-Tributes-and-24-Authors/182086/

 **Here is the form:**

 _Name:_

 _Age:_

 _Gender:_

 _District and backup district:_

 _Appearance (please be at least relatively descriptive):_

 _Backstory (life so far, opinion on Games, things that have made them who they are, etc.):_

 _Personality (be descriptive please):_

 _Friends:_

 _Family:_

 _Social Class:_

 _Reaped? Reaction?:_

 _Volunteered? Why?:_

 _Reaping outfit:_

 _Strengths (at least 2, at most 6):_

 _Weaknesses (at least 3, at most 6):_

 _Romance? (may not actually happen, I'll only put so many in the story):_

 _What do they do during training?:_

 _What do they do for private sessions?:_

 _Score? Reaction to score?:_

 _Do you want them to potentially be in an alliance?:_

 _Interview outfit:_

 _Interview angle:_

 _Bloodbath character or no? (yes, bloodbaths need to be detailed because they will still get chapters before the Games):_

 _How do you want them to die? (probably won't actually happen, but I'll keep everyone's suggestions in mind):_

 _Other:_

 **Also, for the death suggestions, try to be realistic, but if you give me an idea for a giant mutt spider devouring your tribute I probably won't object, because sometimes I like to put ridiculous things in stories and try to make them serious. It's a fun challenge.**

 **SPONSOR SYSTEM:**

 **Everyone gets an allotted $200 to spend on any tribute, not just theirs. Send yours an expensive sword, maybe, and that cute kid that you enjoy reading about a loaf of bread. Prices for things will be determined later. I may decline some purchases. Idk. We'll figure that out later.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter! For the most part I try to respond to reviews in private messages so I'll start doing that now (but I might forget sometimes—oops).**

 **Also, sincere apologies to SibunaMockingjay. I know your pain. I would honestly allow guests to submit if I hadn't gone through having my stories deleted once before, but as horribly frustrating and upsetting as that was at the time, I'm not going to risk it. I do appreciate that you're going to read my story, though, and I hope you like it and continue to review! :-)**

 **Alsoooo, my collab still has a ton of open spots! It's called Troubled Souls and the link for the forum is on my profile.**

* * *

 **District One – Roxane Quartz (18)**

It's silent when I wake up on reaping day. I feel like I could hear any movement in the house. If someone on the other side took one tiny step, I feel like I'd hear the creak of the floor underneath their feet. This is the kind of silence I don't like to wake up to. I normally like silence, but I'm used to bustling and the sound of my parents moving around when I wake up. But today I wanted to wake up a bit earlier than usual, and likely my parents aren't awake yet.

I sit up, almost reluctantly because my bed is so warm and comfortable and it's dark in my room—that nice kind of dark that lulls you back to sleep. As soon as I sit up I swing my legs over the side of the bed, knowing if I don't actually get up soon I'll fall back asleep, and I want time to see my friend for a while. I know we'll have later, at the Justice Building, to say our goodbyes, but half an hour isn't enough.

I check the clock to make sure I haven't missed our rendezvous time. I feel like I've slept a lifetime away, but I haven't. It's six, later than I wanted but still enough time to shower, dress, and walk to where we're meeting.

I get out of bed and take a quick shower, although I do spend a bit longer than intended enjoying the warm water that I had hoped would wake me up. Instead it makes me even sleepier. I know by the time the reaping happens in two hours I'll be fully awake, but that seems so far away.

I hurry back to my room and change into some regular clothes and then leave the house, walking to the park that my best friend and I decided to come to. This isn't a regular thing, but he knows what I'm doing to today. I know that he's slightly bitter that I'm volunteering and he's not, as he's trained every day with me, but the Academy picks one tribute every year and I was picked this year. Of course, other people often shout "I volunteer" before the chosen tribute, but I know Slate wouldn't do that this year, not if I'd be his competitor. We couldn't kill each other.

It's slightly chilly and I regret not wearing a jacket as I come up to the park and see Slate. He gets up and walks over to me and we start walking around.

"How are you feeling, Roxy?" he asks me.

I look around at everything around us, this place I call home. I love it here, and I fully intend on coming back, but what other opportunity to explore is there outside of volunteering for the Games? Ever since I was eight, I knew that although I had plenty here, I wanted more. I wanted to be able to travel to the extravagant Capitol every year as a mentor and to the adventurous arena as a tribute.

"I'm fine," I tell him, and I honestly am or I would tell him otherwise. Both of us can hide out feelings easily and we usually do around other people, but we often get our issues off our chests with each other.

He nods and looks over at me for a moment. I look back at him. He is my age and we are very close, but I don't think I'd ever date Slate. We're just friends and I've never felt like that about him, but I do care for him.

We walk around for a moment and I listen to the birds chirping and flying around. "Hey, you'll be careful, won't you?" he says. "I know you can kick ass and you'll probably do fine, but… just don't make any mistakes."

I nod. "Yeah, I know," I say. "I won't, I promise."

"Okay, cool," he says quietly, and he lets out a sigh.

"What is it?" I ask him, wondering if it has to do with the fact that he's giving up his last year to go into the Games. He tried to volunteer last year before the person who was chosen could, but they shouted it before he could.

"I'm happy for you, but I just wish that I could go," he says. I nod in understanding, and he waits a moment before going on. "I feel like I've wasted all this training, you know?"

"You could be a trainer," I say. I worry about what I'll do if I can't volunteer quickly enough this year. I don't know what I'd do. I'm sure there is something I could do. My father is the mayor of District One, so I come from a wealthy, influential family. I don't want to be a trainer and just remind myself I'll never leave District One. Maybe suggesting it to Slate wasn't such a good idea.

He looks over at me like he's considering it though. "I've thought about that. It doesn't seem so bad. I might do that."

I nod. "Well, whatever you do, I'll be here for you when I come back," I say, smiling.

We live relatively close together, but we won't when I get a house in the Victors' Village. And we won't train and go to school every day, either. I don't have any other friends as close as he is. I wonder if I'll be lonely. Surely I won't be though. I've always gotten along well with a lot of people.

We talk for a while longer, walking a ways away from the park before we have to leave to get ready for the reaping. I go back home and find that my parents are finally awake.

"Where did you go?" my dad asks. He is dressed very nicely, as he'll have to talk about the Hunger Games up on the stage before the escort comes up.

"Slate and I wanted to talk for a while," I tell him, going to the kitchen where I see that my mother has cooked bacon and eggs. I sit down at the table in the dining room.

"Morning, Roxy," she says, smiling over at me through the dining room opening. "Have an adventure, did you? You didn't go far, right?"

My parents have always been rather protective of me. I remember they didn't even want me to volunteer for the Games at first, a while ago, but I proved myself worthy with my skills.

I shake my head. "I just went to the park to talk to Slate," I say.

My parents like Slate. They know that I'm not dating him so they don't really worry about us being off alone, and they know that he comes from respectable parents. He's a lot like me, too.

Dad comes in and fills everyone's plates while Mom tidies up the kitchen a little bit. I can tell they're worried from the way they're treading lightly, trying not to talk to me. If they weren't so worried I know they'd be asking me a million questions about the Games. They ask me a million questions about everything else. They just don't want to confront what's happening at the reaping today yet. I know they're proud, though, so it doesn't bother me.

They sit down and we all eat, and finally Mom says, "You know what you're wearing to the reaping?"

I nod. "I decided already."

"Okay, good," she says. She finishes up eating and then says, "We love you very much and we're very happy for you, you know? We believe in you wholeheartedly."

I nod understandingly. "I know," I say. I believe in myself wholeheartedly, too, but I figure saying that out loud will sound too arrogant.

I finish up my food as well and take my dishes to the sink, and then I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth and hair, making sure my hair is combed nicely. I put on my makeup. I want to look really good. I go back to my room and get dressed. My dress is black and lacy, slightly see-through, and goes down to my knees. It's skintight. I really like this dress. There are some things that inexplicably make you feel really good, almost powerful, and this dress is one of them, especially accompanied with the black stilettos I wear with it.

By the time I'm done getting ready and my parents are ready as well, it's time to go to the square. Being the mayor's family, we don't live far from the square and so we don't have to leave until eight. That's still early for most, but since my father's the mayor he has to talk to Cloelia Agathe, the escort, before starting. I don't know what he talks about to her every year.

I stand in my age group after signing in. I'm the first one there, but people start coming in the closer it gets to eight-thirty. The cameras aren't turned on yet, but I know they will be the moment the clock hits the eight-thirty mark. I look down at myself, making sure nothing's askew. This is about the Hunger Games, which I won't be able to look glamorous in, but the pre-Games things, such as the reaping, are things I can definitely look nice in, and I intend to. The Capitol loves attractive tributes.

Slate comes to me when he arrives and we stand together, making idle chitchat about the things around us, not particularly the fact that I'm volunteering. Despite this, it's almost all I'm thinking about. It's buzzing around in my head and I'm getting really excited. It won't be long before I'm heading off to the Capitol, and that will be the biggest adventure yet. I know I can't leave the Training Center while I'm there, but I wonder about all the places I'll get to go after I win.

"Excuse me," Dad says, and everyone looks up at the stage. He makes his mandatory speech and I've heard it so many times that I practically have it memorized so I don't listen to it. Instead I think about how quickly I'll need to shout out that I'm volunteering. There's never been a fight over who volunteers before, I think, but people definitely do start shouting it out as soon as the word volunteer is out of the escort's lips. Usually they are respectful enough to wait until the word is out at least, though.

Finally Cloelia comes up to the stage and Slate smiles encouragingly at me. "All right, everyone," she begins, her unnaturally white, makeup-covered face twisting into a smile. "As usual, ladies first!"

She goes over to the bowl of names and I watch as she pushes her hand down into the middle of the slips, hoping it's not me. If it's me, someone will volunteer in my place and everything will be for nothing. Maybe Slate will volunteer if I'm reaped, though. That would be the only bright side.

"Iunia Vega!" she calls, and a small girl from the thirteens' section goes up to the stage. I don't know why they make them go up there. Everyone knows there will be volunteers. "Hello, darling. All right, are there any vol—"

I know I should, but I don't wait for her to finish. "I volunteer!" I call, and I look around to see many ready eighteen-year-old girls with their mouths opened. They were prepared to take my place.

I step out of my section and give the crowd a confident smile and then walk up to the stage. I climb the stairs and head over to where I know I'm supposed to stand, my face now transformed into something more intimidating. I'm determined and confident and I know that my face shows it.

"All right, what's your name, dear?" Cloelia asks.

"Roxane Quartz," I tell her.

She nods and moves onto the boys, and I fight to keep a smile from returning to my face. I've waited for this since I was eight. I've always wanted to experience the excitement and adrenaline the Games provides. I'm beyond excited.

"Beryl Winston," Cloelia reads, and I look around the crowd to see the boy step out. He's eighteen and looks disappointed—maybe he was looking to volunteer? He steps up to the stage and stands by me, and Cloelia says, "All right, are there any volunteers?"

"I volunteer!" a small voice shouts loudly, over a couple other older boys saying "I—" before getting cut off by him. For a moment I convince myself that this has to be a fifteen-year-old boy with a higher voice or something, but no. A _twelve-year-old_ steps out of the crowd of potential tributes and walks up to the stage. He is lanky, almost scrawny, and looks incredibly weak, not the kind of guy that should be heading into the goddamn Hunger Games. Even though it didn't stop me from volunteering, _I'm_ annoyed that he did. For fuck's sake!

Beryl leaves the stage and the young boy stands by me.

Cloelia is nothing short of shocked, but she quickly composes herself and asks the boy, "What's your name, dear?"

"I'm Mace Silkie," he says, his voice still small and vaguely uncertain. Damn right he should be uncertain, he's a twelve-year-old that just volunteered for the fucking Games. _Idiot._ I don't mean to, but I'm sure for once in my life I can't hold my emotions in. I'm surprised and annoyed with this kid, and likely it shows on my face.

"All right," Cloelia says, and has us shake hands. "These are the tributes for District One, then—Roxane Quarts and Mace Silkie!"

We're taken to the Justice Building for our goodbyes. The whole where there I'm thinking about his stupidity.

Slate comes in first and gives me a hug. "You'll do well," he tells me, and I nod, smiling gratefully at him. The last thing I want is for him to come in and doubt me, or get frustrated with me. I don't know why he would because he hasn't yet, but still, I'm glad that's not what he's doing.

"Can you believe that little shit volunteered?" I ask, like it's personally offending me, and it almost is. It's so ridiculous.

He shakes his head. "I'm just as surprised as you are," he says, "and pretty frustrated."

I nod understandingly. I hadn't even thought about Slate, really. He must be _so_ annoyed that he couldn't volunteer but some little asshole kid did instead. I know I would be if it were a girl that did that, even if I wasn't planning to volunteer like he wasn't.

"All right, you know what to do, right?" he asks me, and I nod. "Okay, good. Make sure they like you, you know?"

I nod again. "I know what I'm doing, Slate," I say.

He nods as well. We both sit down on the couch and talk about my strategies, and remember things from long ago together, all these stories we have together from training and generally from being friends. It's a nice half an hour, and when the Peacekeeper comes in to tell him it's time for him to leave, it feels like it hasn't even been that long.

My parents come in after he leaves, and they both sit on either side of me, each taking one of my hands protectively. "I believe in you," Mom says, smiling at me, though her smile is very small, "but I still want you to be extremely careful and I want you to not get too ahead of yourself, okay? Arrogance can be bad in situations like these, you know."

I nod. I know. I know what I'm doing. It frustrates me that everyone thinks I don't, but I don't let it show.

"We both believe in you," Dad says. "We love you."

Mom nods.

I smile slightly at them and nod as well. "I know. I love you too," I say.

We talk for a while, and mostly what they have to say is how proud of me they are and how much they can't wait to see me win. We hug when they have to leave and then the Peacekeepers take them away and guide me to the car that will take me to the train.

* * *

 **District One – Mace Silkie (12)**

I stay in my room for as long as I can at the start of the day.

It wasn't always this bad. I remember the times years ago when I wasn't widely considered the biggest failure of District One. I remember when I had potential despite my small size and I was seen as an okay son, a decent little brother. For years now I've been the laughingstock, the one everyone made fun of or disregarded.

I sit in my bedroom and try to think of anything else. It's really warm since I'm wrapped up in my blankets, but not a bad kind of warm. It's a toasty, comfortable warm that I want to stay in forever. I shut my eyes and I'm tempted to go back to sleep, but it's already seven forty-five and I know if I go back to sleep now I won't have much time to eat.

Once it becomes apparent that I need to get up and start getting ready, I get out of bed and walk slowly to my door. Gleam is walking through the hallway as I step out and he flicks my forehead as he passes. I sigh and go to the bathroom, getting in the shower and savoring the feeling of the warm water all over me.

I know what I'm going to do today, but it still scares me. It's not like I want this to happen. It's just that I feel like I have no other choice.

When I get out of the shower, I go back to my room and try to find something respectable to wear to the reaping. I look through my closet but as usual I just find my too-small or raggedy clothes, not ones I can actually wear to the reaping. I know I have a dress shirt, but I just wore it somewhat recently and I know it's dirty.

I grab it anyway because I know I don't have any other choice. My mom will be frustrated for going out in a dirty shirt, but yet she often refuses to allow my laundry to get done because Gleam is doing his or she simply doesn't feel like letting me in her room, which is also where the laundry room is. She also fails to buy me more clothes, so I don't have multiple options.

The dress pants I put on are a little bit too small and make me feel really uncomfortable. They come above my ankles and I know that people will tease me about that. They find anything to tease me about, all because I'm not the best in training.

I leave my room and look around my house. It hasn't changed in as long as I can remember it, so old memories still haunt me in the halls as I walk to the kitchen. The only safe place is my bedroom.

My dad is home. He doesn't look at me when I go to grab something to eat. My mom's cooking but I don't know how much she's made. She might give the breakfast intended for me to my dad, unless she had been anticipating him.

He's never home. He works constantly. Sometimes I think he might be cheating on my mom too.

I sit in the living room with a couple granola bars, looking over at the archway leading into the kitchen and dining room. My dad's at the table and he's talking to Gleam.

It's not like he cares about Gleam. He likes that he can say Gleam is his son. I bet he doesn't tell people I'm his son. I bet he says I have a different dad. Maybe if he told other people that lie enough, he would start to believe it. Maybe if I told myself that I belonged to another family and they'd come to get me one day, I'd start to believe it too.

Maybe I'd be okay if I lived.

 _I'm coming home from training and my head is hanging low. I'm nine years old and I already know that this will be the worst day of my life. Gleam wasn't there at training today, thankfully. I know sometimes he feels a bit jealous of me, but I'm not sure why. Maybe jealous isn't the right word._

 _He's scared I'll be better once I get the hang of things, but he won't have to worry about that anymore, I guess._

 _When I get home, I'm afraid that Dad will be home. He's never hurt me before, but sometimes the look in his eyes scares me enough that I want to cry. It scares me enough that I do cry. It's been this way for years, so I think it's probably been as long as I can remember. Sometimes I try to think about why he wouldn't like me, and I come up with a million reasons and then I cry more. Sometimes I just hate him. That makes me cry, too._

 _Maybe he hates me because I cry easily._

 _I go inside and my dad isn't home, so I walk to the kitchen where I hear my mom cooking. She looks back at me for a second but says nothing. I don't know what to say so for a second I just stand there._

 _"Mace, don't just stand there," she says, and before she can give me any chores, I say it. I blurt it out._

 _"They kicked me out of training."_

 _She looks over at me again and her gaze is icy cold. It doesn't take her long at all to process what I said. She knows and she's furious and there's hatred in her eyes. She hates me. I've seen parents like her before, the kind of parents who use children as status symbols._ "Oh, yes, I'm Gleam Silkie's mom… yes, I'm very proud… yes, he's so strong, he will definitely volunteer…" _To have a child that isn't someone you can be proud of? Probably her worst nightmare. And in this part of District One, being creative isn't something to be proud of. Only training is._

 _She starts to yell and I block her out. My hands are over my ears and I don't want to be in the kitchen anymore. For the first time since this has happened I'm truly scared, not just worried. I hate myself. I hate training. I hate the Hunger Games._

 _I start to cry and she yells louder._

 _"I'll have a talk with your dad about this!"_

 _I cry harder._

I feel sick to my stomach and even though I grabbed three granola bars I push two away, forcing myself to eat one. I don't want to remember but sometimes I can't. Maybe that's why I think so much about things, and the way they work and function and are broken and fixed. I always thought that was cool, so when I have nothing else to do because no one wants to talk to me, I just watch shows about it. There are a lot on this one channel that we get. Sometimes when my dad is home, he talks about canceling that channel and I get worried, but he never does because if he did, he would cancel one of his favorite channels too.

My dad walks out into the living room. My mom and Gleam are close behind. Gleam, of course, looks good, nice, ready to go to the Capitol and win the Hunger Games. He looks like a tribute, a Career. He's the one that has been chosen by the Academy to volunteer. All the funding that's poured into those facilities are supposed to be represented this year by him.

Of course, most of the time others attempt to volunteer before the chosen Career, but I'm sure he's intimidated enough people that no one will try to take his place. He'll have time to leisurely stroll out of the crowd and announce his volunteering.

I wonder what that would feel like, to be so content with it.

I know that it's what I want to do, but I'm scared. I know I'll only be more scared if I stay behind, though. What happens the day I piss my father off and he turns violent like I've always thought about in my nightmares? I've tried to think of ways out of that situation. I try to think of ways out of all situations like that. But there's none. There's nothing good about me being here.

No one wants me here. They tell me that all the time. It's more than Gleam flicking me in the hallway. I know that's what brothers do. It's _more than that._ It's my mom giving my breakfast to my dad, it's them not letting my laundry get done because of this reason or that, it's people at school literally telling me how useless and pointless my life is.

It's that and it's overwhelming and I can't even think about what it would be like if I went through my entire life with that over my head. I'd be miserable. I'd go insane. Maybe I'm insane already. Who else would volunteer at twelve years old unless they were insane?

We walk to the square and I walk behind my family, looking around at the pathways and the people trailing around us, everyone having the same destination today. If I could go to sleep and never wake up and avoid all of this, I probably would, but instead I'm making my way to the square, and I'm signing in, and I'm going to the age group for twelve-year-olds. This is my first reaping ever and I should be scared, scared about the single slip in a giant glass bowl that says _Mace Silkie._ But I'm not. If I get reaped, my brother will volunteer, everyone will love him more, and I will find some other way to disappear.

At least in the Games, there's that minute possibility that I'll live and I can distance myself from my family forever. I can be great.

It's not that I want to die. It's that I don't want to live the life that I've been given.

I see a flash of red hair walking in front of me through the crowd of other twelve-year-olds starting to accumulate. I head that way without thinking. I don't know if Rubella will want to talk to me, but she's always been friendly to me before. She says hi and never makes fun of me. She seems uncomfortable when others do.

I like Rubella. She's the closest thing I have to an acquaintance anymore.

Maybe I isolate myself too much. Maybe if I got out there more, really worked to get the best grades possible, people would like me better. No one is this horrible to people who choose not to train.

But choosing not to and getting kicked out of it are two different things, I guess.

I keep thinking of reasons not to volunteer, but each time I do, I remember another insult, another time when I was invisible or worthless or unwanted. The times when people aren't awful are few and far between and I can't do that anymore. I honestly can't. I feel so tired, not physically but mentally, like my brain is going to turn to mush and I'd probably accept that.

"Rubella," I say when I get to her, and I see her turn to me. She told me to tell the teachers one time, and I did. I had before, but I did again. Nothing was done. But she wanted to try to help me. Maybe if I talked to her more…

How would that help? Everyone would still hate me.

She looks over at me and doesn't look disappointed to see me, although her friends all roll their eyes. She smiles at me slightly. No one dislikes her. There's no way anyone could. "Hey, Mace," she says. "How are you?"

"I'm okay," I lie. It's all a lie.

She nods. "That's good. Me too."

I nod too. "Well, see you," I say, because I don't want her to get frustrated with me for staying. I walk over to the side of the section while I watch the mayor and the escort get ready to talk.

I want to listen to them but I can't focus. Every time I try to I just think about how the banner is slightly crooked, or about how when I walk up to the stage I'm probably going to fall.

I hear the escort start to reap someone so I pay attention. She calls the name of some girl and she walks up to the stage. There's no fear in anyone reaped here. Everyone knows there will be volunteers.

The escort can't finish her sentence before the female volunteer is shouting out. She walks up to the stage proudly, very confident. She's very pretty.

"Beryl Winston" is the name called for the boys. He comes from the front section, my brother's section. I watch him go up there, stand on the stage. I watch him wait for a volunteer, probably annoyed that he now doesn't have the opportunity to try to shout. Maybe others are going to defy my brother and attempt to go into the Games, despite the fact that he is strong, intimidated, and practically followed around like a District One training god.

As soon as the escort, Cloelia or something, asks for volunteers, I force the words out of my mouth urgently. "I volunteer!" A few others around me had part of it out, but I was the first.

And everything spirals down on top of me until instead of focusing on the banner and falling and my frustration for the people around me and their teasing, I'm in the moment and only there. I can feel all eyes turn to me as I step out of the section and walk up to the stage. I can feel my heart beating in my chest and for a moment it's a little bit too much. I've done it. There's no turning back and I feel sick, sicker than I did earlier.

I get up there and I'm only vaguely aware of the fact that the escort asks me my name, so I tell her. I'm worried that I sound scared, but I don't see why it matters. I am scared. I don't stand a chance. I'm going to die and it doesn't even matter.

It doesn't even fucking _matter._

I'm shaking hands with the girl tribute—Roxane, I think—and then Peacekeepers are walking us into the Justice Building and leaving everything else behind. And somehow I know that I'm going to spend the next hour alone.

And I do.

* * *

 **So, did you like the reaping? Who was your favorite? What do you predict about these two? What did you like/didn't you like about this chapter writing-wise or character-wise?**

 **Also, I'm on vacation and so I will have less time to write than usual. Also, school starts for me on the thirteenth, so I may be a bit slow to update at first while I get used to being back at school.**

 **And another thing—I'm going to change my sponsor system a bit because I've seen one I like better. Each review is going to be, like, 15 points, and each question you answer from the end of the chapter will be 10. I think that's going to be how it is—I'm really not sure, but I think I like that. I'll have the sponsor item costs up when the Games actually start. I'll probably wait to start the sponsor system until I'm 100% sure of how it'll work, so if you don't feel like answering the four questions I have above, don't worry about not getting points. No one will get points for this chapter or the last.**

 **I know I told some of you I'd have the chapter up the other day, but vacation got in the way. Oops. I hope I did both of your tributes justice (although I think I fucked up a little bit but I hope not too badly).**

 **The District Two chapter should be up before the thirteen but I'm not exactly sure when, it all depends on time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the late update. I'm going through some shit right now and it's all I can do to keep my collab organized and deal with school. I swear I'll update sooner from now on if I can.**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: There are somewhat graphic mentions of past self-harm and a flashback detailing an occurrence involving self-harm. If this is going to trigger you, I'd advise to skip over a lot of Calix's section. I'll summarize it in the end so you don't miss anything if you don't want to read his part because of the self-harm.**

* * *

 **District Two – Andromena Hale (18)**

 _The training academy is the most amazing thing I've ever seen._

 _Everything is slightly fuzzy around the edges, slightly unreal, and I walk as though floating, not having to move my feet. I glide through the building with ease, wonder piling up inside me like it's propelling me forward. There's no one around in the training building yet, and I'm glad there isn't because this first glimpse without anyone here lets me know how things are for when I come for real._

 _I'm younger than most when they start training. Some parents insist that they start at six or seven—the earliest ages allowed—but the average age is anywhere from eight to ten. I'm six, but I don't feel six. Maybe I'm not six, but my body is six._

 _I pick up an axe. I probably shouldn't be able to, since I've never trained before a day in my life and the axe is heavy. I throw it and it hits the bullseye of the target on my first attempt. I look up proudly and see that my mother is standing there, beaming at me, beaming at her future victor daughter. I can see the pride painted all over her face and I beam too._

 _I pick up a sword and more axes and throw them and swing them and train and train and train and I get older and older and older. Years pass and soon I'm eighteen, sparring with my training partner and beating him nearly every time. "Come on, Atticus!" I say, taunting him. "Try harder!"_

 _He tries but he slips up and I win again._

"Andromena," I hear, and for a moment I think I'm still in the training building but as I open my eyes, I realize that that was all a dream. I look up and see my mother is at the doorway to my room, smiling at me proudly like she was in my dream. It makes sense what I dreamt about. I'm going to volunteer today—I was chosen to do so. I was thinking about it a lot as I fell asleep last night.

I sit up, although I am tired and would like nothing more than to sleep for just a bit longer, but I know it's reaping day. I'm more excited for that than for sleeping, so I push myself out of bed and leave the room as my mother leaves the doorway as well. I go to the kitchen and fill my plate. My mother has made eggs and toast.

"I'm very proud of you, Andromena," she tells me, and I look up at her, smiling.

"Thank you," I say. I don't think I'd be where I am today if it weren't for my mother. She's made me who I am today, has encouraged me to push myself in training so I can be a victor for both of us. Sometimes I think she almost lives vicariously through me since she never got to volunteer, but I really don't mind. She's happy with me and I know it, so I'm happy too.

I dread to think of who I'd be if I'd ever stayed with my father. Living on the other side of the district, my father doesn't have as much money as us and doesn't live nearly the same lifestyle. He is a mason while my mother works in one of the cities of District Two. He doesn't believe in the Games at all either, which makes absolutely no sense to me. He isn't from the lower districts, so I don't see why he acts like it. He has openly stated that he thinks my mother is awful and the person she has turned me into will be exactly the same, but it doesn't bother me. He's weird. I wouldn't take anything a person like him said to heart.

There are little kids in this area who think similarly too, or little kids all over the place that don't know how to use any weapons, can hardly train at all. My friend Ambrosia and I are always sure to make them know how stupid they are.

I look up at the clock as I eat. I don't have time to go to the training building like I wanted to. I wish my mother had woken me up sooner, but I don't get mad at her for not waking me up. I'm too excited for the day to come to get mad at anyone about anything right now.

Once I'm done eating I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth quickly and then I hop in the shower. Once I'm all ready, I go to my room and get dressed. My mother has already told my countless times what she wants me to wear, but I don't want to come off as sexy. I don't want to play that angle. Once people see how good I am, I won't need to have any angle other than letting them know how brutal I can be.

I put on tight-fitting leather pants and pick out a shirt, pulling out a loose navy shirt, slipping it on quickly and heading back to the bathroom to deal with my hair. I'm glad to find that my shirt brings out my eyes, which are the opposite shade of blue. They're icy and I'm sure they'll look really intimidating.

My part is all messed up after my shower. I generally like to keep it pretty far over to the left, but it doesn't always like to stay all the way over there. I fix the part in my hair and then brush it.

When I'm sure it looks okay, I get done getting ready completely and then walk out to the living room where my mother is. The TV is on and the District One reaping has just started playing live on it. She's waiting for me while the reaping plays. I watch as people finish filing into the area and their mayor makes his speech. Each reaping, I've found every year, varies from district to district, but they all have the same message.

The fact that the District One reaping has started means it's time to go. We like to show up a little early every year, so if we want to show up early, we just have enough time to walk over to the town square. We could ride the train and be there in five minutes, but my mother likes the walk.

"Are you ready?" she asks me. When I nod, she says, "You look nice, even though you would've looked nicer in what I wanted you to wear."

I shrug slightly. "Yeah, I know, whatever."

We go outside and I look up at the sky. It's got a few dark clouds and it isn't as bright outside as it was at this time yesterday, but overall it's a nice day. There's a light breeze that flies by and blows my dark blonde hair. My mother looks over at me for a second, her eyes still full of excitement and pride.

The walk to the town square goes by mostly the streets between houses. There are no shops or restaurants or anything until you get closer to the square. There's a little park that we pass, and it has really nothing more than a few walkways and a gazebo in the center, as well as a lot of trees and benches. It's covered in shade all around the edges, but in the middle where the gazebo is are a lot of flowers growing in the sunlight. Colors surround the gazebo and vines grow up the sides. Before my dad moved to the other side of the district years ago, he would always bring me here, but I never actually liked it.

We pass the residential section and start to see shops and other community buildings spread throughout the rest of our walk to the square. Finally we reach the very, very large open space where everyone files in and watches the reaping.

"Good luck," Mom says.

I go get signed in, my finger being pricked, and then walk over to the eighteens' section.

"Andromena!" I hear someone call. I look back and see my friend Ambrosia coming over to me. "Hey!"

"Hey," I say. "What's up?"

"Did you see what that little idiot Alexa Dylan was wearing?" she asks, grinning at me.

I shake my head and look around the crowed of seventeens behind us until I catch sight of the girl she's talking about. She looks completely ridiculous. She doesn't match at all, and her bright red hair is all askew, although someone obviously attempted to style it—to no avail.

I grin back at her and roll my eyes. "What a fucking idiot. Did you say something to her?"

"I didn't get the chance!" Ambrosia says with a bit of a huff. "I wanted to, though."

I sigh slightly. "That would've been great," I say. "Did you say anything to anyone on your way up here?"

"Well, you know Troye Whitson?" she says.

I nod. He's a little twelve-year-old who can't train for shit and is likely to get kicked out of training.

"He was running around like a fucking idiot," she says. "I said something to him."

She goes on to tell me about everything she said yesterday. We haven't talked in a few days since she hasn't been to training. She wasn't chosen to volunteer and isn't going to be a trainer, so she has no good reason to show up to training other than if she just wanted to. I've been training as much as possible and it's taken up all of my time lately. I need to get in every bit I can before the Games.

I know I'm good, but I'm not an idiot. There's always room for improvement, and the Hunger Games are serious. If you're a fuckhead volunteer from somewhere like Four, where the Academy really isn't nearly as good, you might be all cocky and think that the Games are something you can slide through. But if you're arrogant and think you're sure to win, and you let your guard down, you'll die easily. I know I can win, but I know that it won't be effortless. It will be hard, but it will be worth it.

It doesn't take long for the square to fill up and I'm excited. I level myself out, though, and show it as little as possible. If I went up there grinning all excitably, that wouldn't look very good for me. I'd look like an idiot Career instead of the very capable one that I am.

The mayor comes up to talk about the things that mayors talk about on reaping days—which is to say, nothing that anyone feels like listening to, so I don't. It's when he hands the microphone off to Marcia Grande, the escort, that the real fun starts. She says a few words, as our escort often feel is necessary for them to do although it isn't, and then she finally says what I want to here.

"Okay, ladies first!"

She walks over to the glass ball full of girls' names. I watch her every step. If my name is drawn, then that's it. Someone else can volunteer—it's all fair game. I wonder if this is how the lower districts feel, so opposed to the Games and so untrained, unprepared. I wonder if they sit here watching every step thinking, _Don't be me, don't be me, don't be me, I can't go into the Games_ , while I think, _Don't be me, don't be me, don't be me, I have to go into the Games._ Whatever, though—lower districts are fucking idiots. Killing them will be a pleasure.

"Rosa Delacroix," the escort calls, and I wait impatiently for Rosa Delacroix—who came out of the sixteens' section, and I vaguely recognize her face from something—to walk up to the stage. Once she's up there and standing in the proper place for tributes, Marcia asks expectantly, "Volunteers?" It's not something that doesn't happen anymore. 99% of District Two wants to volunteer. You won't ever be sending in a reaped tribute from Two.

"I volunteer!" I say confidently as I meander my way through the parting group of eighteens and walk out of my section. Rosa and I cross paths. She goes back to her section, face expressionless, and I go up to the microphone where Marcia is waiting for me.

"Name and age, love," she tells me, and I bristle slightly at the name but say nothing of it.

"Andromena Hale, eighteen," I state, and then stand in my spot, the smallest of prideful grins slipping through onto my face.

Marcia thanks me and goes over to the boys' bowl. "Dominic Winston!" she calls.

I don't really pay attention as the boy starts to come up, but my thoughts are pulled from the Games to the present when, before Dominic Winston has even reached the stage, someone is calling out, "I volunteer!"

Dominic Winston looks back toward the sound of the volunteer. He's halfway up to the stage, just paused on the stage, and it seems like there's a slightly awkward silence that falls down onto the square. Most of the time, everyone just follows the rule: Wait until the reaped person gets up to the stage. There's no use in being that impatient. It only takes a couple seconds, maybe a minute if they're stuck in the thick of the twelves' group in the very back. But this guy, who's coming out of my age section from the very front, doesn't seem to respect that rule.

He has dirty blonde hair, sweet eyes, and he's tall and muscular. Despite his sweet eyes, though, his face is a scowl as he walks past the practically dumbfounded Dominic Winston who was expecting a few seconds on national television and didn't even get that. He walks back to his section while the volunteer walks straight up to the stage. There's a big scar going down his right cheek that, along with his scowl, makes him look pretty intimidating, but I'm not worried. The Games wouldn't be fun if there wasn't a little competition.

Okay, maybe they would be. I'd still enjoy killing all the little pissheads from the lower districts.

"Calix Livianus, eighteen," he announces into the microphone without having to be prompted to do so.

"Well," Marcia says after a second, obviously shocked by the _sheer disrespect_ he's shown her. I can just imagine the thoughts, the _outrage_ , in her mind. "Mr. Livianus, we do usually wait until I ask for volunteers to shout it out, but I won't say you can't volunteer, of course…"

Calix Livianus says nothing to her.

"Well, District Two, here are you tributes for the One Hundred Twenty-first Hunger Games!" She turns from the crowd to us, smiling, no longer concerned with Calix's impatience. "Well, shake hands, you two."

We shake hands, and he looks into my eyes but like he's not seeing. It's kind of disconcerting, the way he stares straight through me. This guy is a little creepy. I forget if he's the guy that was chosen to volunteer or not. I only ever paid attention to the girls for myself.

Actually, I was really oblivious to everyone but my competition in training now that I think about it. Most of the time when someone volunteers, a few others might try to beat the chosen volunteer to it, especially from the boys who can't get it through their heads that they're not _meant_ to volunteer. The Academy, which is funded by the Capitol (so, indirectly, the Capitol), chooses one trained citizen to volunteer and that's who they _want_ to volunteer. Anyway, no one tried to beat him. It seems like he might be well-known to some.

Maybe he doesn't go to my training building. There are few that stretch across the expanse of the district so no one has to go miles and miles and miles just to train.

We're led by Peacekeepers off into the Justice Building. I don't think I've ever been inside the Building, but it's nice on the inside, probably the nicest building I've ever been inside. We're escorted into a really cool glass elevator that I can't help but be fascinated by, and I watch as a couple floors zoom past us until the elevator dings and we're led through a hallway into the goodbye room. It's really nice, with a black leather couch, a black leather loveseat, and a black leather recliner. I opt to sit in the recliner while I wait for Ambrosia or my mother to come up to the building. I know they'll be the only ones to say goodbye to me. Atticus might, but I don't know.

I'd be really surprised if my dad did.

Ambrosia comes first, and what we talk about ranges from the Games to nothing important. She's a strategist, so she tries to give me handfuls of advice that I've already heard, but I listen to her talk anyway. After about twenty minutes, a Peacekeeper pokes his head in.

"It's time for another visitor," he said, and Ambrosia is ushered away from me after we say our final goodbye before I come back at the end of the Games.

Of course my mother is next, and she hugs me, smiles at me, tells me how proud she is of me. I've never been praised so much by her. Of course she's praised me—she is very proud of me after all—but she doesn't like to let me think that I can slack off just because I've done well. She trains me very well. Lately she's been easier on me, but now is the easiest time of all. I smile and reciprocate all her love, telling her how happy I am she's raised me, she's trained me, she's here for me, she's waiting for me to come back. I'm prepared to be with her for the rest of the forty minutes until my hour of goodbyes are over, but to my surprise, after half an hour she's escorted out. I wait a couple minutes, watching the last ten minutes tick by, until someone else enters the room.

My father sits down across from me awkwardly, wringing his hands. The bags and the darkness under his eyes are both prominent features anymore, it seems. He is disheveled, and it's never been more obvious that I get my looks from my mother.

"Andromena," he says, the tone of his voice careful, calculative. He thinks first, I'm pretty sure. I'm more impulsive, nothing like him.

I'm already getting angry just at the sight of him daring to come here to talk to me after all these years. I didn't want to be in contact with him, and I still don't want to be. He's fucked up. I don't like him at all.

"What are you doing here?" I snap, because I don't know what else to do other than to show him I'm frustrated. I didn't want to walk into this adventure feeling angry and annoyed. "Why are you saying goodbye?"

"I haven't seen you in so long," he states quietly, and although he is measuring his speak, it still feels warm, soft, but not at all inviting. He seems deceptive. I have no idea who he is.

"I don't want to see you," I tell him, spatting it out. It's so true, too. Why won't he just leave? Why won't these ten minutes just fly by?

He bites his lip. "I just want to say goodbye, Andromena. I… I really wish I could've helped you somehow."

"Just get out," I say, feeling helpless because I can't make him leave like I want him to, but I don't want to show this weakness. I feel like I'm facing an enemy here, but it's just my bothersome father.

He gets up but he just stands there for a second, and I refuse to look at him. I feel like a pouting child but I don't care. I'll never see him again. After I win, I'll make sure of that. He'll never come to my house. If I see him, it'll only be by chance and I'll make sure to get as far away from him as possible.

Finally, without another word, he leaves and I'm left alone for a moment in the room, this fancily decorated room that feels so dirty now that he's contaminated it. When the Peacekeepers come to escort me out, I'm beyond relieved. I walk with him and meet up with Calix and Marcia, and we're all taken to the train station, where we board the extravagant train and make our first step in the trek to my victory.

* * *

 **District Two – Calix Livianus (18)**

I want to hurt. It's an ache, a desire, an addiction. Blood, screams, cries—it's what I get drunk off; it's how I energize myself. It's my fuel, my passion, my reason to live. I wake up and everything is good, everything is quiet and peaceful and no one is screaming and begging and I'm disappointed. I go through my daily routines and none of them involve beating the living shit out of someone and I hate it.

It's my favorite day of the year—one of my favorite days of my life, actually—but I'm still not overly excited about it. I feel numb when I don't feel pain. I feel numb when I do, mostly. And I feel buzzy today, like every time my mind skips back over to that certain special event today I can't help but get this little rush because of what's to follow. I don't like the buzzy feeling. It feels like happiness. It feels _good_ , and the only things that are supposed to feel good are the rushes I get when I know someone else is in pain.

I'm going to kill someone next week. I'm going to kill a lot of people next week and I'm going to savor every second of it.

I've been holding off for my entire life. I train as much as I physically can. I push myself to the breaking point and then push myself over until I do break. I crumble and collapse from the overexertion or the pain and I relish in it as I wait until I can pull myself back up and go home. I grow stronger and stronger each day, practicing to kill people by only injuring them and not finishing up the job. Ever since I was capable of being enrolled into the Academy and starting my training, I've been holding off on those last few blows that would result in death.

There is no one stronger than me.

I get out of my bed and look around my room. Right now is the last time I'll ever see it and I'm so fucking glad. This room contains all the memories of the knives I dragged over my wrists and arms and the blood that gushed out. This room sings of the initial hisses of indignation as I hurt myself, and then of the laughter and smiles that followed as I got used to it. This room in its own way has been my second training building, and the same goes for this entire house. This house is my beginning, and I'm ready to throw it the fuck away.

I go to my closet to get out what I'm going to wear today. I grab the first shirt that seem suitable for an event treated as seriously as the reaping. It's a blue, gold, and black plaid button-down. I grab a black tie and black dress pants and carry it all out of my room, going into the bathroom to shower. Once I've done that, I get dressed, leaving my dirty clothes on the floor where one of my parents will collect it later.

Outside my room is quiet. My parents are eating breakfast. My mother hasn't cooked for me, but I don't want to eat much, anyway. The train ride to the Capitol will have plenty to eat on it. I grab a bowl, a box of cereal, and milk out of the fridge and quickly eat before the cereal gets soggy. I look back at my parents who are carrying on a conversation at the dining table while I sit at the counter in the kitchen. They don't look at me.

It's always been like this. They want a victor, not a son. I'm more than happy to provide that for them, although I hate them as much as I hate anyone else. Once I've won, I won't have to see them anymore and everything will be better. I'll give them money and they'll stop talking to me. I'll be rich and my thirst for blood will have been sated.

Most parents would be alarmed by thick, red scars appearing rapidly down their son's arms. Mine weren't.

 _I'd done this for a while. I'd noticed how much I liked cutting myself after the pain subsided. I rarely go to school and at the training building no one cares about your life, just about your abilities, so there was no one to be concerned about me but my parents. It wasn't to get their attention. It was so I could stop wincing whenever I got cut or hit particularly hard in training. I was sick of having that weakness, even though I could win in a fight despite it._

 _My first idea was to take a knife to myself and just cut, and that's exactly what I did. It stung badly at first. It was a horrible pain, but I realized in the Games if I couldn't adjust to a pain like this, I couldn't win, not efficiently and uniquely at least. I have never wanted anyone to categorize me into the group of the rest of the Careers, the rest of the victors. Just another tribute among the many who killed well and caught the Capitol's eye for just a second. I've always wanted to be something_ different. _I want them to realize how dangerous I truly am._

 _I did it frequently, as often as I felt like, although the first few were stretched out farther than any of the rest. I did it for the second time three weeks after the first. I fucking_ hate _to admit it, but I was scared of doing it a second time. It hurt. But once I did it, and then did it a third the next week, and a fourth a couple days later, and a fifth the next day, the pain started to blur with the not-pain, and numbness fell over every second that I wasn't in constant agony. Blood drip-drip-dripped onto my bedroom floor and stained my carpet, and I watched it and soon grew a smile when it happened._

 _I cut in many places. I cut my sides, my legs, my arms, my hands. But it wasn't enough. What will people go after in the Games? What will be hard not to see?_

 _My face._

 _I was in my room, ready to cut at my side again. My shirt was lifted and I had the knife poised over my skin. But instead I let my shirt fall again and raised the knife up to my cheek, pressing it to the skin and sitting there for a second, wondering what it was feel like, wondering how much blood there'd be. I dug the knife in, making a somewhat jagged, deep cut and then pulled the knife out. The blood fell down my face, onto my shirt and pants and my floor. I watched it, brought my fingers up to it and touched it. I felt it. I loved it._

 _I went to the bathroom immediately to look at it. I waited until the blood slowed and then cleaned it up. I knew it would scar, but I still was a little distantly worried that it might not. I couldn't wait for the scar._

I reach up and touch my scar now, remembering this event in detail. That was definitely a good decision, a proud moment of mine.

Once my cereal is all gone I check the time. It's time to go. My parents leave with me although we don't talk much. On the walk to the transportation to the square—as we live rather far away—my mom says, "Are you ready?"

I don't know why I wouldn't be. I don't answer because she should know.

"You'd better win," my dad says, voice rough, harsh.

I wonder what their coworkers think. Are they in awe of the parents of the strongest kid in District Two? Do their children ever speak of the boy they're afraid to go near who hardly comes to school but always arrives at training? Do they talk of how glad they are to go to the different training facility than me so they don't have to worry about getting partnered with me and having the daylights slammed out of them?

They know I'll win. It's not even a question.

"Why don't you leave it up to me?" I snap, frustrated with them. "You've left everything else in my life up to me. I'm perfectly capable of handling this."

The square is full by the time we get there. We're not late, but we're some of the last stragglers. I remember to roll up my sleeves to show the scars on my arms before I get signed in. Blood is pricked from my finger. I wonder if others feel the prick, or if it's really as painless as I feel it is. Few are as strong as me so I assume the former to be true.

I don't know the escort's name—Marcia?—but she and the mayor talk for longer than I feel is necessary before finally getting down to business. I think about cutting, about training, about the Games. The girl is reaped and I don't know what her name is, but the volunteer politely waits for volunteers to be asked for before shouting out. I know who she is. She was the one selected. Obviously I was, too. I wonder if she pays enough attention to know who I am. I hope she doesn't. Arrogantly clueless Careers are a pleasure to watch get killed, and it'll be a pleasure to kill them myself.

A boy name Dominic Winston is reaped. Fuck waiting to be asked. He walks up the steps to the stage and when I'm damn well ready, I shout, "I volunteer!"

My presence silences everyone anyway, but my disregard for the waiting rule dumfounds them. I look back at the crowd as I walk up and see all the faces, ranging from uncaring to seriously shocked. I step onto the stage where I'm supposed to and say into the microphone before the Marcia woman has to ask me, "Calix Livianus, eighteen."

I know the process. I don't need to play the silly games that the Capitol likes for us to play. I just want to play the actual Games, _my_ Games.

"Well." The escort looks disgusted. "Mr. Livianus, we do usually wait until I ask for volunteers to shout it out, but I won't say you can't volunteer, of course…"

 _Of course._

"Well, District Two, here are you tributes for the One Hundred Twenty-first Hunger Games!" I look up at Andromena for a second, before focusing elsewhere in my mind. I focus on making sure my scars are evident. "Well, shake hands, you two."

We shake hands and then I get taken by Peacekeepers to the Justice Building. I don't think anyone will come to visit me. I don't want them to. I think the final goodbye is ridiculous. I don't think it will be the last time the people of District Two will see me in person, anyway.

* * *

 **Summary of Calix's part for those who didn't read it bc of triggers: Basically he's really, really bloodthirsty and was thinking the whole time of how much he wants to be in the Games.**

 **Did you like the reaping? Who is your favorite? What do you/don't you like about the chapter?**

 **Again, sorry for the long wait. It won't happen again! I'll have the District Three chapter up within the next 10-12 days most likely!**


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